


Antes de la Guerra

by Edie_Rone



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Kicking ass and taking names, MSR, carter never cared about it so why should i, how two 50-something agents got ready to fight, of course i fudged the timeline, pre-s11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 15:23:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20342338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edie_Rone/pseuds/Edie_Rone
Summary: They don’t tell Eduardo when they’re back at the Bureau, but one steaming marshy 5:15 a.m. that summer, he straddles Scully as she bench-presses her last heavy rep and says in his calm but deadly-serious way: “You ready for fight?”





	Antes de la Guerra

It started out as just exercise — a joyless 30-minute pre-dawn burst of cardio at the zero-frills gym one sketchy block from the hospital, three days a week. Kept her weight down and her heart healthy, even if it was broken. 

But later, when she and Mulder fell into spending weekdays at the place she kept in town, he started accompanying her there, and as they regained fitness, the old competitiveness kicked in — they gradually got up a little earlier, stayed a little longer, started adding some weights to the routine.

They never spoke to anyone else there, never looked into any of the gym’s other offerings, just pushed themselves, a team of two again.

Then one frigid spring evening, she has to help subdue a psychotic patient and despite her old skills kicking in, he almost gets the better of her. That’s when she starts asking around (among certain women) for a trainer — who materializes one morning at the gym, seemingly from out of nowhere.

Eduardo doesn’t offer any personal details, not even a last name; his accent (in what few words he does say) is similar to that of Irina, Scully’s best surgical nurse, so they think of him as Honduran, whether or not that’s the case. He’s somewhere around 30, and has two inches and 25 muscled pounds on Mulder — lithe, ripped, and with the wingspan of an NBA center.

He makes them for law enforcement immediately, despite the years since they’ve been in the field, but he asks no questions about their service — or why they need his — and they pay him in cash.

Under Eduardo’s tutelage, four brutally early mornings a week, they both get leaner, harder, more flexible. Mulder quietly gives up his teenage junk-food diet — it won’t support this kind of training — and when Scully finishes the last of the bottles she picked up during BevMo’s most recent 5-cent wine sale, she doesn’t restock. They sleep better, they fuck more, they both stop needing their occasional anti-anxiety meds.

They don’t tell Eduardo when they’re back at the Bureau, but one steaming marshy 5:15 a.m. that summer, he straddles Scully as she bench-presses her last heavy rep and says in his calm but deadly-serious way: “You ready for fight?”

Mulder, who’s right there spotting for her, guides the bar from her shaking arms into the rests before he grabs a fistful of Eduardo’s painted-on tank top. “What the fuck did you just say to my wife?”

The next few seconds are a blur, at the end of which Mulder finds himself on the floor with the other man’s knee on his chest, and Scully held in a chokehold with Eduardo’s free arm.

“I say, you ready for to learn fight? I can teach you.”

He releases them and stands, as unruffled as if he’s just offered them tea and scones.

The things that have been bothering them lately, the feathery edges of paranoia about what lies in the shadows and what they might have to face now that they’re officially back in the mix — it takes but a second for their minds to connect in the old way, one live-wire glance between them, for both to heave out a yes.

Not here, he says; he’ll come to them. He warns them that they’ll get bruises, scratches, headaches, “make your whole house a mess” — they understand, they agree.

Eduardo may be a man of few words, but he delivers on every one of them.

It’s the oddest working partnership they’ve ever had, Mulder reflects one morning as she’s helping him get his arm into the sling that had been necessary after Sunday’s session: “We pay a guy money to come into our home twice a week and kick our asses — a guy whose real name and origin story we do. not. know, I might add — and then we’re so pumped, we have more sex than a couple of horny teenagers. Not that I’m complaining about that last part.” She laughs, agreeing, then scrapes her nails over his newly-chiseled abs — and once again, they’re almost late to work.

A week later, Scully hobbles gamely into the Hoover with a boot cast on her right leg and a yarn about jumping into a too-shallow pool; the fact that she actually sprained her ankle vaulting a stair rail in her apartment building with Eduardo in pursuit seems somehow implausible as an explanation. She’s not sure why neither of them are telling anyone about their increasingly-rough combat and evasion lessons, but they’ve apparently decided to keep it to themselves and pretend they’re just regular middle-aged agents with a normal level of field readiness. It’s that old instinct for cover, she supposes; better to let your enemies underestimate you, no matter how nebulous those enemies are.

She’s forced to explain herself at the hospital, though, when the department head stops her after a meeting for a little chat about how “ever since you’ve moved back in with your husband, Dr. Scully, I’ve been noticing … things that concern me. Now, I’m not judging, or implying — and of course this is off the record — but as your friend and a fellow medical professional, I have to ask: This contusion on your face — can you tell me how you got it?” She’s not sure Dr. Parekh buys the krav maga explanation, but it’s all she’s willing to say.

That evening, out at the house, is the first time she manages to fend off both Mulder and Eduardo, teamed up against her in an exercise Eduardo called “you get attack by two big motherfuckers, they gonna take you and put you in the trunk.” Her feral scream of victory as she stands astride Eduardo’s “dead” body leaves her voice raw; by the next morning, having traded control back and forth all night in bed with Mulder, she can barely speak at all.

The situation gets weirder, but so gradually that they barely notice: Eduardo stops texting in advance of showing up, and sometimes just accosts them — even in public places — with no warning. He turns off the power to the house, makes them fight in the dark, all three against each other. He handicaps them in various ways — handcuffs, zip ties, one of them dragging the faux-unconscious other. They switch from toy-store blasters to their real pieces — unloaded, of course, with safeties on and fingers nowhere near the trigger.

And then one day, they realize it’s been a week since they’ve seen Eduardo. Figuring they should keep in fighting trim, they turn off all the lights, pursue each other in the dark, end up fucking their brains out on the hardwood floor of Mulder’s office.

A week becomes two, then almost three. They improvise workouts, but start to worry that whatever brought Eduardo to them in the first place has found him.

Just when Mulder is about to start putting out feelers, they get a text from an unknown number: _tonight 11 Go to the place I find you argue about if that girl isa good actor or no_

The parking garage underneath the AMC Bayview 20 Theatres is deserted at that hour on a Monday. They go, expecting to engage — nerves alight, muscles tensed, adrenaline high. But there he is at the farthest, darkest end — not leaping at them from the shadows, but leaning against a ’70s Mercedes in $300 jeans and an ancient wool overcoat, looking like the scion of an old and wealthy family. He holds his arms up, palms toward them in a gesture of harmlessness, as they approach warily.

He gifts them with a rare smile, and they respond in kind, glad to see him unharmed. “I have to go now,” he says. “You not finishing you training yet, but you gonna be ok.”

“Where — why are you leaving?” Scully asks, half-aware of the bad form of asking that kind of question of a person who obviously wouldn’t or couldn’t answer truthfully. Eduardo just smiles again, shaking his finger at her.

“Best you not know. Come here.” He holds his arms out to them both for a hug. Pressed close to them, he murmurs quickly, with some urgency, “You know I am not Eduardo. I am not Adrian either but — is who I am for now. _Entiende?_ I see those scars at the gym, I see how you together against everybody, all the world, is why I teach you fighting. I don’t know who you fighting, but you ready when they come, yes?”

Then he pulls back a little, turns to Mulder, and kisses him deeply, one arm slung low with the palm flat between Mulder’s shoulder blades — though he hardly needs the leverage — and the other caressing the back of his neck. When Eduardo breaks the kiss, he pivots immediately to Scully, brings her in like a dance partner and lifts her almost off her feet as he dips low to kiss her — a soldier going off to war.

His smile when he lets her go is brilliant but profoundly sad. The two of them stand there, blinking and stunned, as he backs away, opening the car door and shaking his head at them. “You should both have kick my ass for that,” he says with a rueful laugh. Then, soberly, he adds, “Buena suerte, my friends.”

“Buena suerte,” they mumble uselessly as he drives off, their hands finding each other without so much as a downward glance; he’s right, it’s the two of them against the world, and in that moment they’re conscious of just how much better prepared they are for whatever might come — will come.

They’ve never been this sharp, not even with the advantages of youth. And a few weeks later, when strange headlights come bouncing up their private road, they find that Eduardo was right: They are ready.

**Author's Note:**

> From a fic request by @emceecapitalc, who wondered how the hell a couple of 50-somethings could fight assassins on no notice after years out of the game …


End file.
